Pyromania
by ifwednesdaywasaflowerchild
Summary: Ilsa Pucci has always had a penchant for playing with things far more dangerous than a proper lady should think about. Christopher Chance is a blazing inferno, and Ilsa's feeling a bit like a pyromaniac.


She's playing with fire.

But, then, Ilsa Pucci has always had something of a penchant for playing with things far more dangerous than a proper lady should dare to even think about. Now is, of course, no different. After all, she hadn't chose this white silk thing because it was comfortable (though, that was one heavenly bonus), but rather because she _liked _this fire; liked to stoke and prod and pour gasoline - metaphorically, of course - on it until it positively exploded. Until her body was molten, white hot flames licking up her spine, and she felt boneless and complete.

It's a little different, she supposes, when you're married. She certainly doesn't remember being this excited about showing Marshall new lingerie, even when they were still very much in the honeymoon phase. He was very much a more conservative lover, in that aspect. Or, rather, more emotional. What she was wearing made little difference to him, the fact that she was there was all he needed to feel that sense of completion. Whereas Chance is different. He is as physical as he is emotional and mental. What she's wearing doesn't always make a difference - nine times out of ten, he doesn't notice - but there's something more primal about him when she springs something on him like this. She likes the way his eyes darken and his face flushes; aroused and hot and flustered at the sight of his gorgeous benefactor wearing nothing but a scrap of silk here and a strategically placed strip of lace there.

Sometimes, if _he _is the one playing with fire, which didn't happen often, he'd let his fingers trail up her inner thigh under the conference table. Or, trace the clean line of her collarbone down to the open neck of her blouse with his eyes. If he really wants to play, and he does because is so much a child at Christmas, he'll do something that he _knows _she'll notice. Sometimes, it's a little touch, a quick dip of his fingers into the small of her back or, sometimes it's the slip of an innuendo, or a shirtless workout that's just hard enough to make him sweat a bit. Just enough to get her going.

It's a game, in a way.

She only requires new lingerie, or an extra button undone, to get him going, but he has to work harder. He has to touch her, slip words in that imply his want of her when they're alone, or do something that'll make her notice him. He has to know that creeping his hand under her skirt and tugging at the lace hem around her thigh is going to make her eyes widen just a fraction. He has to know that tracing a line to her cleavage is going to heat up her face. He has to _know _if something is going to work, has to judge for himself what the right move is to get her going, because she's harder to play. She's a challenge and there's nothing someone as stubborn as Chance likes more than a challenge.

She isn't the easy one-night-stands he'd enjoyed as Junior, the prissy girls with a purse full of Daddy's money. She is a tough-as-nails CEO and she'll be damned if he plays her as easily as he plays other girls. Not that he seems to play other girls, anymore. In fact, Winston said he hasn't been on a date since she showed up.

She's left with little time to contemplate his lack of social life when her front door opens and his voice fills the empty space; "Ilsa?"

"Living room." Ilsa is careful to keep her voice normal, despite the lingerie and the need that throbs between her legs - God, she's never wanted someone like this. It's fierce and animalistic, almost. She feels a bit predatory, setting him up to pounce on him and _take _what she wants.

Chance is tense, hand pressed against the gun on his hip when he steps into the living room to examine the scene. Damn. She wasn't in trouble like she'd said, at least not the life-threatening sort. However, that lingerie was all kinds of trouble. "Well," he finally breathes when he can sort his thoughts. "You're not in trouble."

"No, I don't appear to be." Ilsa smiles, lifting a glass of wine in his direction as she stands up from the couch. "I have, however, acquired some new lingerie and I would appreciate an opinion of it."

It's nice.

For what there is, but honestly, he's not seeing much. Her breasts hugged by a strip of white silk that is, by the light of her fireplace, sheer enough, he can see the strain of arousal in them. Her panties aren't much better, a scrap of sheer silk that, unless he's reading her wrong, he'll find to be soaked, or at the very least, damp. A mess of tousled black curls contrast the pale silk and the fire gives her a pretty glow that is ironic in its ethereality; far more pure than she.

"Are you awaiting an invitation?" Ilsa wonders, giggling at the blown out pupils and the hitch in his breathing. "I do hope you're not. It's like Christmas, you see. All you have to do is take the bow off and you'll be free to do whatever you like with your gift."

"So," his grin is lupine. "If I take that off of you…"

"Yes." Ilsa is all seduction and arousal; sexy smile, dark eyes, and moving in a way that suggests she's turned on, almost painfully so.

"Yes, that is what that means, or yes, that is what you hope I do?" Chance questions teasingly, eyes sparkling with amusement. "You have to be clear. What I want to do when I get that off of you and what you hope I do may not be the same. I'd hate to disappoint."

"The result is the same, either way, is it not?" Ilsa slinks closer to him.

Chance just shrugs, reaching out to touch her when she's close enough. He rubs the band of silk where it stretches around her hip, watches the way her eyes close, and her breathing shifts, deepens. "Maybe it is, maybe it isn't."

"Fine." Ilsa clenches her teeth. "Do you want me to tell you?"

"Yes, Missus Pucci." he lowers his voice, but his eyes are bright and his expression childlike, as if he is but a child seeking instruction from an adult.

"When you take this lingerie off," she's almost gasping, not because of frustration but because his hand is moving up, and under the band of her bra. "I expect sex. Lots of it. And not that silly slow stuff, either. I do not want to be treated like a fragile little doll. I want you to be as wicked as you like. Something I suspect you were to going to be, anyway."

Good. God.

While he isn't entirely sure what he'd been expecting, that certainly wasn't it. She wanted sex. He got that part - her attire for the evening pretty much clued him in on that front - but the kind of sex she wanted. Nothing slow, or gentle. No. She wanted the rough and dirty sex. She wanted someone to show her they didn't think she'd break. That she wasn't a fragile little doll.

"Good, we agree." Chance smirks, nodding toward the couch. "Couch. Now."

Ilsa bites her lip, eagerly anticipating the wild night she's in for.

She's not disappointed.


End file.
